


Mine

by pearl4453 (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cheating, Dubious Morality, Ephebophilia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/pearl4453
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have a nice boyfriend, but your boyfriend's dad is even nicer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the key was in my fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuck-slayer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fuck-slayer).



> stop fucking looking at me i didnt choose to write this  
> (yes i did)  
> (im terrible)  
> (dont look at me)  
> dedicated to penn/ tumblr user fuck-slayer who to this day runs my favorite blog+ makes the best headcanons

Your boyfriend is an ass, but manages to pull of lovable and dorky with the slightest bit of effort. John and you have been together- romantically, as in- for maybe a year. 

You’re not sure why John likes you or you like John or what ever else is going on there, but you try not to question it and instead attempt to hold hands sometimes (his hand is warm-sticky with the residue of fruit roll-ups). It’s nice. John can sometimes impress you even with having the slightest hint of a romantic in him, when he occasionally picks you a random assortment of flowers from his neighbor’s garden. You feel bad for Mrs. Wilcox, her flower bed never asked for this. 

Your favorite thing to do with John, though, just one nick higher than watching movies with him and making fun of the actor’s haircuts, is hanging out at his house and having dinner there. His father- Mr. Egbert- bakes well and also cooks well, and smells of pipe smoke and cologne. You always help him around the kitchen, and when John gives a long sigh (“Stop sucking up to my dad!!”) Mr. Egbert promptly gives him a stern look and John shuts up. You wish you had a look that could do that. 

After a while John will wander aimlessly out of the room, grunting, and Mr. Egbert will ask you questions that aren’t invasive, but polite, and he actually listens to your answers. He’ll stir the pasta’s (such a strange name) “meatsauce” in a pot while you cut up carrots carefully and he’ll speak to you like he cares about you. John is probably the luckiest human you know, he had one hell of a lusus.

It becomes a habit. Every Friday night, you walk down three streets, take a left, walk down another road and then make a right into the Egbert house, and help them make dinner. Help Mr. Egbert, at least. John groans futilely and leaves the kitchen until you two finish, and then joins you again at dinner time, and then the two of you watch a movie and you either sleep over at their house or trek back to your own hive. 

There are things that happen, though, along the way. You can’t say you’ve never purposely spilt things so that John’s father and you need to clean it up (together!!), you can’t say that you’ve never accidentally bumped into him multiple times, just to see if he’s as soft as John (he has a more stable build, actually). 

So you have a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad. This is not as big a deal as it needs to be.

When you two first started your cooking campaigns, Mr. Egbert would just give you a kind look when you’d mess up. It wasn’t patronizing, but it wasn’t really the look you were aiming to get. The fact that you were aiming to get any kind of look is fucked up enough already. 

As time passed though, as the two of you talked about troll society and human society and what bothers you and how you should deal with it and on and on and on, he shifts, too. His eyes- a cool, slate grey- flick towards yours when you smooth against him now. At one point you stood completely next to him, his arm against yours, you standing on a little step-up and peeling potatoes while he fried fish and you had the whole fucking kitchen to peel these damn lumpy nubs but you stood beside him steadfastly and it would be so obvious at that point but he didn’t say a word, didn’t move away, just stood there not looking at you but his neck and cheekbones got all redlike and frying some fucking fish. You regard this proudly as an achievement. 

And for the last few months, when you’d set the table he’d find ways to graze against you too- you’d lay down tablet mats and he’s lean above and across you to put plates on the other side of the table and your breath would get all shuddery quiet and he’d pretend nothing was wrong and oh, oh his chest is very strong indeed and it feels kind of nice to have such a nice chest on your small back and then whoops its over, you need to call your boyfriend down to eat. Boyfriend, right. 

You blush uncontrollably when this stuff happens, but when John asks about it at the table, you pointedly don’t look in the vicinity of Mr. Egbert and make the claim that cooking gets you heated up- no, not that way John, shut the fuck up, I meant temperature wise, god your boyfriend is such a little shit. 

And then later, oh later days of dinner at the Egberts leads to Mr. Egbert touching you casually in the small of your back and in the nape of your neck during cooking and he doesn’t make an effort to make it seem accidental, he just puts it out there and there’s no cover up but still, no one acknowledges it, least of all you. He makes you feel safe when he does it, he’s not pushing it on you either and you know he’d stop if you said so, you can see him watching you diligently to see if you want it to stop but you don’t say a fucking thing, no, you just worry your bottom lip with a tooth and go on pretending. 

Dinner has you at the head of the table and John on one side, Mr. Egbert on the other. John will grab his food and then start talking about his day and Mr. Egbert will listen to him, nodding, and you’ll also listen passively until you feel a warm, large hand on your knee that most definitely does not belong to your boyfriend. 

The first time you’d jerked and luckily, John didn’t notice. When you looked at Mr. Egbert his face remained focused on his son, but his hand patted your knee as if to comfort you. Then it slid up so very slowly and you make a small chirruping noise in the back of your throat, and oh fuck why is your bulge coming out already he’s barely done anything, no fuck this. His hand reaches your inner thigh and rests. You take a deep breath and sit very still, as if moving will cause his hand to shatter and melt away. He doesn’t go beyond this point, however, and this is the status quo for the months to come. 

This is so fucked up.


	2. my fist was in my pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy petting is good

You wear something a bit done up today- a crisp white button-up on top of dark grey trousers. It felt like a good idea at the time, but as you walk down to John’s house it just feels dumb. Who are you trying to impress?

…Your boyfriend, you manage to remember, of course, yes, him. 

The door isn’t open tonight when you attempt to jangle the gold knob, which leaves you startled and baffled on the front porch of the Egbert household. The sun’s just going down. This sets on a feeling of dread; like fuck you are going to walk a half mile home when it’s dark. Crabdad would decidedly kill you if a random stranger didn’t manage to.

You let out a sigh and knock the red door once, twice, and wait. A moment of pause, and then footsteps, thank god. 

Mr. Egbert opens the door. 

You nearly jump and your stomach attempts to drop in the opposite direction before you hastily try to smooth our your expression. You weren’t expecting him, nor were you expecting that his eyes would be so trained on you that you’d want to shiver.

“Oh- uh, hi Mr. Egbert, sir, I--” you stutter through with a croak in your voice. Holy shit, great, now he’s looking at you like you’re a dumbass, and he feels bad for you, shit.

He opens up with a look of confusion. “Good evening, Karkat, I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“Huh?”

“I would’ve thought John had mentioned, he’s going to be out for an hour or so. He has a marching band practice right now.” 

Your boyfriend failed to mention that throughout the school day. As Mr. Egbert gives you a sympathetic look, you consider melting into a puddle of hot, sticky shame. 

He smiles, though. “Ah, well, now that you’re here, you’re welcome to stay. I almost insist, I doubt your father will want you walking in the dark.” And with that he cracks open the door a bit farther, allowing you to slip in like a meowbeast in shock. 

Oh. Oh god, oh god, you’re with him alone, _alone_. 

You immediately go to the kitchen out of sole habit, and sure enough, there’s ingredients out. Except it’s for cake. Apparently he’d already prepared dinner, enough for himself and one other person- assumedly John. You hope he won’t mind if you took that share, since John can (and does) gorge off the snacks at band practice. He enters right behind you and chuckles at your bewildered look. 

“John doesn’t like cake, I think you know that already. Unfortunately, I do, so whenever he’s out, it’s my chance to act on a guilty pleasure.”

You shrug. “Alright, that makes sense. Can I help?”

He lets you get started on the icing while he mixes eggs and flour in a separate bowl; eventually, your arm gets tired from mixing and you ask if it’s done.

“I don’t know,” he answers, sliding up next to you. “You tell me.” 

He deftly swipes a bit of vanilla frosting on his index finger, and oh holy crap he’s offering it to you. Are you- is he-

Oh.

You ignore your head and lean forward the tiniest bit, allowing your tongue to parse the sugary icing on his fingertip except you can’t really get a read this way so oh no. Oh no his finger is now in your mouth. 

The best thing to do right now, you suppose, is go with it. He has made no sound of dissent yet; you tamely suck on his finger, and find that the icing is quite nice. The pad of his pointer, though, you’re not quite sure but it feels like it’s- like it’s- stroking your alien tongue, a movement barely there but still existing. 

Cautiously you begin to suck a tiny bit harder, allow your tongue to meld around the shape of his finger. You hear him huff as the movements become more rigorous, which sets you off to make the tiniest sound in response and suddenly he jerks the fingers (oh, wow, apparently he had wrestled in two others beside the pointer while you were so caught up in things) our of your mouth, slick and covered in pale rose saliva. 

The both of you are breathing heavily when he hoists you onto the counter, as if you weigh nothing, and then proceed to grab at each other until his mouth belatedly finds yours and your mind goes blank for a good three seconds before you remember, oh yes I know how to make out, and you get on that.

Your tongue still tastes like vanilla and sugar, while his has a hint of cloying sweet pipe smoke. You chase after it by slyly swiping your tongue against his palate; he groans softly into your soft lips and puts more weight upon you, making you lean back slightly with your arms entangled around his neck, ankles meeting at the base of his back. 

You understand quite plainly you’re acting like an animal, chirping and creaking and at one point making a strange tweeting noise at the back of your throat but this seems to spur Mr. Egbert on farther. He reaches a warm hand in the gap between your legs and massages- you’re not sure if he knows this feels like heaven on your bulge, but damn if you’re complaining- and divests his mouth from yours to nip at your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuckkk. 

“Anh- ah, ah, hhess,” you make in response to him slowly pulling off your trousers and undergarments. When you try to unbutton your top, though, he shakes his head and instead just hikes it up so it rests right under your collarbone. You’re shaking warm but the room feels chilly when you get this exposed; in a moment it doesn’t matter, seeing as he attacks your ribcage with tender, wet kisses. You most definitely do not blush. 

He doesn’t appear phased by your anatomy, and pets you lightly on your bulge, testing your sensitivity before grabbing ahold of it and stroking along with its undulations. You scrabble to keep up, and wrestle a small hand between your bodies to feel up his strangely stable bulge itself.

He makes a choked off noise, and lets go of your bulge. Oh god, did you go to far?

But no, he moves back up to kiss you while two fingers find your nook. He’s barely brushed against anything down there before you pant a few heavy breaths and feel a wave of cool pleasure that comes with orgasm. 

You’d feel worse, but Mr. Egbert merely laughs softly and then nuzzles your neck again. You melt like a fucking baby and start purring loudly, legs swinging around him. 

The two of you sit there for a little while, but then you see the time and you nearly jump out of your skin. 

“Oh, god, Mr. Egbert, John’s going to be here any fucking- um, sorry, I mean John’s going to be here any minute, we should, uh, get cleaned up if that’s okay?” you say very quickly, mangled by the fact you are indeed still rumbling in your chest. You can’t help it at this point, you’re giddy and happy. 

He pulls back and surveys the damage: you didn’t exude much material, you’re mostly safe. 

“That makes a good deal of sense, Karkat, I’ll get on cleaning this. How about you make yourself decent again?”

You nod in a small way and slide off the counter to make your way to the bathroom- but you peck Mr. Egbert on his stubbly cheek before dashing away. 

You’re pretty sure it made him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh spaghettios
> 
> john comes home and is confused why there is spaghetti sauce on the kitchen floor. karkat almost dies and dad cleans it up really quickly heyehjsfkdfjs


	3. and he was mine, mine, mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the big man hass GOT THE SEX.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG CHAPTER sort of for me anyways. leave me alone

It becomes a game, in which you canoodle with a middle-aged man while hoping his son/ your boyfriend doesn’t discover anything. You…you feel awful about doing it. If you weren’t a complete piece of shit prior, you truly are despicable now. Atrociously so. Fortunately, this does not prevent you from performing for Mr. Egbert, nor does it give you pause for the times when he presses his whole mouth against yours and you whine in response to his tongue in your mouth.

John does not suspect anything, which makes you feel relieved and even fucking worse at the same time. The closest he comes to wondering what’s up is when he finds a mark on your neck (a hicky, according to stupid, redundant human vocabulary) that he vocalizes is not one he gave you. You insist that it was, and he frowned for a bit, considering, before shrugging and kissing you very sweetly on the mouth. You tried your hardest not to blanch.

A few months later, John gets the notion that you and he have been together long enough that the two of you should get to the part where you do more than fumble each other’s junk over the cover of pants. You agree quietly and that’s how you find yourself panting while John’s head is tucked in the nape your neck, biting softly, jerking your bulge off.

This is the point at which Mr. Egbert yells upstairs that it’s dinner time (you feel slight guilt for not helping him make dinner, and even greater guilt over something else completely). John whips his hand away (of course, you had helped him with his junk first) from you, grimaces at the fluid on his hand, and runs to the bathroom to wash it off. 

You yourself growl at the fact you’re going to have to deal with an animated bulge during dinner and hoist your pants on bitterly. The tribulations of your life are strikingly terrible in a unique way, you think to yourself.

You stomp down, a frown etched on your face, and yank the chair out from the table to sit on it. It’s only after you’re angrily seated do you realize Mr. Egbert is looking at you from across the table, and oh, you have never seen that expression on his face.

“Hello, Karkat. How’re you?”

“I’m good, uh, thanks, yeah, how are you sir?”

The two of you maintain the pretense of formality while John’s in the house, but right now you stray far from being collected. Rather, you blurt out your words in an alarmingly fast pace to the point that Mr. Egbert raises one eyebrow at you, mouth hidden behind his fingers. 

“I’m well, thank you. I thought it was a bit strange that you didn’t assist me today?”

Oh, shit.

“I-I was- I mean, John and I were just-”

He interrupts you. “I know what was happening.”

Oh, _shit_.

You squeak and silence yourself. But Mr. Egbert says nothing beyond this, which honestly terrifies you, and then John is romping down the stairs and now he’s sitting next to you, which is sort of a cue for you to stop talking about how he probably had his hands giving your bulge the Full Human Hand Meet and Greet five minutes prior.

You’re tensely swallowing a crab cake when Mr. Egberts hand situates itself on your thigh, like many other dinners, but there’s a certain aggressiveness behind his weight that surprises you. He passes farther up your leg quicker than usual and then even surpasses the old stop-point: the back of his index and middle finger are, holy fucking shit, pressing softly against your nook and swollen bulge through denim. You eat the crab cake deadly slow with a wavering hand. There’s a definite lump in your throat, painful and yearning. 

 John is just fucking going off on a tangent on what Tavros and Dave are up to in slam poetry but you can’t help but buck into Mr. Egbert’s firm hand and oh, that felt nice so you’ll do it again (and again) (and again) (now you’re just humping his hand).

_This is pretty fucked up dinner time behavior, Karkat, don’t be an asshat, come on, please please please Mr. Egbert just a bit harder-_

With stuttered breathing you rut against the pressure, and he curls his two fingers for you and digs the slightest bit and there’s a burning heat down there now, you squirm against it and hold your breath and try not to scream when he draws away.

“John, Karkat- I just remembered, I have a good deal of work pending in my office. I’m going to have to cut dinner short and go process some paperwork, alright?”

He gives you _a look_.

John nods dismissively, but as soon as Mr. Egbert exits the room you say in a voice louder than necessary that you’d rather get to the bathroom _, right fucking now if you please_. John raises his eyebrows in confusion, begins to open his mouth and his white shiny buck teeth are sticking out--- but then ends up settling for silence, and eats with a look of neglect. Your nook does not give the slightest shit, and you leave the kitchen in record time.

The corridor on the way out smells of creaky pinewood and your heart is beating slowly, deliberately as if stomping, your face is feeling beyond warm, and in this state you stumble your way into Mr. Egbert’s room.

You catch your breath for all of two seconds before a mass has pulled you against them and the smell is sharp and sweet so you know in an instant it’s Mr. Egbert so when you turn your face and it’s caught against starched cotton you think, _fucking finally_ , and then when he picks you up as if you’re a doll and presses his lips against yours you murmur, “Fucking _finally_.”

Mr. Egbert takes this opening to fit his tongue inside your mouth, at which point you shift forward to get, ah, some friction on your bulge. He is having none of it, instead moving the both of you ass backwards into his desk, sliding some papers around, and then flipping you onto it so your ass is presented in a stately manner to his human crotch.

 “Holy shit-” you choke out before he leans over you, his weight pressing firmly on your back, and then you feel his two fingers tracing your nook through your jeans. A throbbing sort of pain overtakes you there, each pulse seeming to make your whole body flush. You smack your cheek on the table and groan.

“Ahh, fuck--” 

He pushes his fingers just a bit harder against you and you roll your hips in response. Your breathing is labored already, and this only becomes worse when he softly bites the ridge of your ear. By the time he gets to gently suckling on the same place, you are moaning breathily. Fuck.

To stop yourself from making perhaps the most embarrassing noises known to both troll and humankind, you twist your arm back, grab him by the neck, and wrench. He gets the message immediately; you’re connected by the mouth within two seconds. His stubble rubs against you in and it burns, which feels lovely. He tastes like pipe smoke and mint. You croon.

He pulls away, slowly, and you are under the impression you’re receiving the smallest moment of relapse, but this changes when you find two thick fingers against your mouth, firm and waiting. Oh. You pause, breathe steadily through your nose, and then let them in. They immediately start stroking your tongue, and your eyelids flutter. 

He’s wrenching off your pants and this is when you whimper quietly and brokenly, “D-daddy-”

He freezes. 

_Plummeting stomach, feel awful, feel sick, oh my god? Fuck, I fucked up, I fucked up, I-_

You almost shriek when you find he pulls off your pants more roughly now, and drags your underwear down with it. And this is it: the room’s not warm but you’re burning up, he’s not doing anything but you’re heaving and squirming, John is still your boyfriend and you’re backing yourself up onto another, much older, man.

He runs two fingers around your nook, lightly enough that it almost tickles, then strokes gently right on top of it. You’re almost embarrassed by how slick you are, you’re positively dripping. He only gives a muffled growl to this fact, which sets you off a little more.

His hands travel down again and he pets the insides of your thighs kindly; you get the message and grunt while spreading your legs a little more. You feel pretty exposed, which only serves to rev you up a bit more. 

Again, he fits his fingers in your nook, sliding one, and then two in with ease and thrusting his other fingers into your mouth. You’re drooling on yourself, now, but you really can’t swallow and there’s sort of spit everywhere, but quietly to yourself you admit you like it and then pretend you never thought that in the first place.

“Mmph, mmph, mmph--” you get to hear yourself as some sort of anthem to this process and it makes your whole body flush but it obviously pleases Mr. Egbert and you really, really want to please him- 

“Say it again,” he hums to you. You have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Hhmph?”

 “Please.”

 That’s when it hits you. 

“Ah- Dadd-dy,” you croak out best you can with two fingers snipping at your tongue, and he sighs so happily that you feel pleased with yourself too. You shudder and squeeze your legs together, trapping his fingers in you for the smallest second and then relaxing again. He laughs very quietly.

In a fit you wriggle against him, urging him to get on with it, and he drags his fingers out of your mouth only to pet you on the cheek. You can imagine that you’re creating quite a sight for him: pressed up against the table, bottom up, pants shoved down, and probably the most shamefully needy expression on your ass of a face.

He’s not looking top-form either, though, and that eases your nerves a bit; his hair is disheveled, he’s breathing heavily, and his hands shake the slightest bit while he pulls down his own trousers.

He’s sweating, a light sheen illuminating his arms as he positions himself. Your chest stutters and you gulp about seven times before he’s entered himself, at which point you crinkle your eyes shut and try to get used to the feeling of being…weirdly full. 

He pets your hair while he waits for you, taps a finger on your horn, bends over and kisses your cheek and tells you that you’re precious and important and special and you start crying, very softly, and blubber out, “Daddy-y, you can move-”

 He doesn’t move, though, he simply kisses you on top of your head and- you’re not even sure how, completely- manages to hug you in this position, which only kicks out more tears.

 “P-please, just _move_ ,” you whimper, and he shushes you by pecking you on the lips, then on your snotty nose, and on your closed eyes. You bet your tears taste disgusting.

You almost vibrate with how much you just want him to move, move, move damn it and your wish comes true as he shifts backwards and begins to move in and out at a mind bogglingly slow pace.

“Faster,” you whisper.

“Faster, _who_?”

“I- I- faster, Daddy, please,” and the words are barely out before he’s already moving quicker. One hand’s pressed in the middle of your shoulderblades, massaging, and one’s inching up to squeeze your cheeks, making it harder to make any sort of noise. You still feel your own tear tracks on your face, sticky and gross. He does not mind.

“Ohhh my god, oh my god, Daddy, harder, ah, Daddy please-” you moan in your stupor, needy and excited. He’s so fucking perfect inside you. 

You can feel him sliding in you and it’s probably the weirdest feeling ever but nevertheless you begin to move against him as well, counter rhythm, so that he can hit a little harder and FUCK okay that was good, more, you’re so wet you’re leaking down your thighs- 

Down the hallway, loud and obnoxious but muted: “Karkaaat, if you don’t get back quick I’m going to eat your crabcakes!”

Fuck _off_ , John.

To your intense surprise, Mr. Egbert does not stop moving, and his hands travel from your cheeks to your throat and tugs back so that you’re forced to balance on your arms and gasp against him and you’re almost choking but he starts kissing you on your shoulders and nibbling and you practically scream while you come, making your thighs streaked with thick and gratuitously large amount of genetic material.

“Ah,” he growls, and then he shakes against your back for five full seconds. He then lets out a gasp against your hair, and falls limp. He releases your throat, and you almost break your chin on the way back down. 

“Fucking _ow_ , Daddy,” you mutter. 

He hears that somehow and chuckles as he pulls away from you. You’re content to stand in place for a while, though. 

Once he’s cleaned up and presentable again (he helps you with most of the mess on you as well), he settles himself on the seat on other side of the desk. You stand up creakily and hear a few joints crack. You’re in a sort of milky haze in your head right now. 

When you look at him again, he eyes you almost lovingly, which makes you wanna start sobbing once more.  

“Anything to give me before you go?”

You eye him skeptically.

“A kiss for Daddy?”

You roll your eyes, try not to flare up red, and lean over the table to kiss him lightly over the mouth. He smiles against you, and laughs at your crimson face when you back off. 

He winks at you. You make a face at him, then leave the room to wash your face and hands in the washroom.

When you enter the dining room again, John is eating your last crabcake and looking altogether pretty pleased with how life is. His head jerks first to you, mouth open in surprise, but his eyes catch the red stain on your pant cuffs pretty quickly. 

John wrinkles his nose at you and starts snorting. “Really, dude? You went to the bathroom for _that_? Talk about impatient.” 

You don’t even look him in the eye (you don’t even think you can, anymore).

He snickers, you take another helping of crabcakes, and begin to hate yourself all over again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont ever talk to me about this ever again IT TOOK SO LONG TO GET THROUGH THIS PART


End file.
